


The Broken Doll

by Tigresse



Series: Sheriarty All The Way [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Brain Damage, Broken Jim, Drama, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Friendship/Love, Hurt/Comfort, Love Triangles, M/M, Male Friendship, Reunions, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Slow Burn, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-29
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2019-12-26 11:37:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18281810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tigresse/pseuds/Tigresse
Summary: Jim is back but not as Moriarty. Can the Holmes brothers resist? And why has Sebastian abandoned Jim!Update: Chapter 3 posted





	1. A Knock on the Door

_It was like any other day at Baker Street, around 10-30 am. The date was February 5 th. _

 

Sherlock was barely awake. John had already gone off to his clinic by 9 and had left him a cooked, hot breakfast which was now stone cold. Mrs. Hudson was vacuuming her flat downstairs. Mycroft would surely be meeting someone important at that hour, in his three-piece suit and tie.

 

Little did Sherlock know how his life was going to change forever on that particular day. As he sat drinking the second cup of tea (Mrs. Hudson had left that on the coffee table, as usual), he had a good mind to do some shopping. Not many knew that Sherlock was extremely fastidious and picky about his clothes, shoes, accessories, hairstyle and skin care products. Even if he lived the grunge lifestyle in a scruffy flat, beneath those layers of nonchalance that screamed ‘I care two hoots about what people think’ he was actually someone who secretly enjoyed being called handsome, suave, stylish, with a quirky twist. If not on a case, if not traveling, he did give some care and attention to his looks and maintaining himself in shape.

 

Years of solving cases free of cost had not really reduced him to a poor man living on his wealthy parents and wealthier brother’s doles. In fact, he was now a wealthy man himself, largely due to the two or three cases he handled in a year where the client was so rich they gave him a blank cheque literally for his services. The previous year he had inherited a sizeable estate from a grand-uncle, who had passed without an heir. The property and cash he owned had gone to Sherlock, Mycroft and two of their other cousins. Sherlock’s share was a nice three bedroom terrace flat with a modern fully-equipped kitchen, a home office, a sitting room, three baths, a laundry and store room and a dining area.

 

He’d also received 900000 pounds, which he intended to shop with. But where was the money? Surely his late relative’s lawyer had handed him a cheque….or transferred it to his account…. now which account was it……He did what he usually did when confused, he called John.

 

“Jawn!”

 

“What did you break?”

 

“Why do you have a screaming rooster behind you?”

 

John was silent for a moment before he said ‘hold on’. Then he walked away from there, presumably to a quieter spot. “Sherlock, that is a patient. It’s a child, about a year old, with a skin rash. It’s not a rooster.”

 

“I am only reacting to what I heard.”

 

“Okay, fair enough. It’s not a rooster. So what were you calling for? Are you okay?”

 

It was so like John to _scold_ him, then _coddle_ him, then get _affectionate_ , then _back to angry_ if he did something against his wishes. These behaviors and reactions were _so John-esque_ that Sherlock could anticipate them with his eyes shut. “I am fine,” Sherlock yawned elaborately, stretching his long arms and legs in all directions, “Just a bit bored and, _before you say I solved three cases in the last seven days_ , let me tell you I am not complaining about boredom, at least not today. In fact, I have a great idea of how to spend my time today. My wardrobe needs a revamp and I also need to buy some accessories. Where is Uncle Thaddeus’ money? I mean the nine hundred grand sum he left for me in cash? I want to do some online shopping while you are at work.”

 

“And if I was not at work?”

 

“Then you’d buy clothes and shoes for me, bring them back so I can try them on, then take them back and get the right sizes and colors and all that. But you’re busy, I know you’re trying to see your patients as much as possible before we have another case to work on. Right?”

 

He heard John sigh, “It would be easier to live with a toddler.”

 

“Eh?”

 

“Sherlock, it’s weekend starting tomorrow. Can’t we both just go and shop together?”

 

“Detectives have no weekends. Besides, I don’t like people, noise, all that attention. Of late there is also this annoyingly bothersome disease that has been doing the rounds and it spreads by touch. I want to stay away from the crowds.”

 

“How come I, as a doctor, am not aware of this disease?”

 

“You saw it. At the grocery store a kid touched my hair and then touched his mum. Immediately the young woman started touching my face and neck. Then that day, as we were getting out of the cab, an old woman touched her arm. She was holding her son’s hand since she was limping and almost immediately her teenaged son touched my earlobe, with his teeth. It’s quite scary if you ask me.”

 

He heard laughter. Then a chuckle. Finally John said, “Look, I don’t trust you with your online shopping. You don’t like anything you buy and it just gets dumped in a corner. As for the money, I have invested them all in your name. Last weekend a financial consultant came over, remember? Yes, the same redhead you hardly looked at and signed without even checking the papers. She has ensured your capital doubles over the next five to ten years.”

 

“But why? I want to spend now.”

 

“You have enough and more to spend. There is over a hundred grand in two of your accounts, HSBC and Barclays. I take care of all the expenses of 221B, don’t I? I only use your account to pay your credit card bills. You have cash there, don’t worry. But no, please, no online shopping. Okay, I gotta go now, the rooster….. _shit, what’s wrong with me_ , the child is bawling its head off and I need to calm the mother down first.”

 

***

 

Despite what he had said to John, Sherlock felt the usual signs of inactivity and boredom crop up. From his ADHD and other ‘stimming’ behaviors to getting so restless he had begun to dig his nails into his palms, he was like a spinning top shooting around the room muttering all kinds of mumbled nonsense. He had solved three mathematical problems, twelve crossword puzzles, the Rubik’s cube 100 times and read a whole full length book end to end. Still it was only four in the evening and John would take another two hours to return. Apparently he had been scheduled to assist in a surgery at Barts. Sherlock had pouted at the text but deep down he knew John enjoyed his work as a doctor and couldn’t be tamed completely like a house cat.

 

It was during these times that he sorely missed…….Moriarty.

 

It had been four and half years since Jim had died. Sherlock had grown from a still-slightly-young man of twenty-eight to a mature man of thirty-two. Had Jim lived, he would have been thirty-one this year. He was fourteen months younger than Sherlock, the detective remembered that. Sometimes he argued with himself as to why he remembered so many minute details about the mastermind, the only villain who had psyched him out and the only man who held the combined intelligence of both him and his elder brother Mycroft. Maybe it was respect, maybe it was a certain longing to have him back (life was much more interesting with him around), but whatever it was, Sherlock had never stopped missing the man and wondering _‘what if’_.

 

He also liked the way Moriarty dressed. Sharp suits, immaculately tailored, bespoke ties and shoes, designer brands all over, always suave and debonair, not a hair out of place, yes Jim Moriarty had been a very attractive man.

 

“Stupid guy had to shoot himself,” Sherlock snorted, “If he was around, I would have always had a case or two to work on. He would be threatening me, he said he owed me, you owe me some competition asshole. There is nobody at my horizon right now, forget my level.”

 

He had seen a few miracles in this life and attributed scientific reasons to each one of them. The Holmes family believed in reason, not in magic. But that day, _as his life changed forever_ , he was met with a miracle that he couldn’t explain in any way whatsoever.

 

A knock on the door, _a soft one_.

 

The thudding footsteps and the loud sound of a door slamming downstairs.

 

Someone had knocked and run. They could have been anyone but one thing was for sure, it couldn’t be anyone other than an enemy or adversary, with a very specific purpose in mind. Harming or bothering or scaring him! It certainly wouldn’t be a prank because nobody played pranks on him, ever. He would trace them from their footprints or a mere whiff of their cologne and track them down, then make their life miserable. This had to be somebody who wanted to plant…..a bomb? Yes, that was it. Someone had planted a bomb. Triggered by a mere turn of the doorknob perhaps! No, he couldn’t just open the door and step out, he had to get out through the window and come back in through the door downstairs. That path was safe, since the one who planted the bomb had chosen that route to get away.

 

As he was climbing out of the window he noticed a car driving off at breakneck speed, swerving and tyres screeching, people cursing at the driver. A Japanese sedan, Sherlock noticed, with a number plate that was sure to return zero ‘finds’. It was fake and planted over the actual plate.

 

Sherlock got back in through the door and crept upstairs, holding his breath, his gun held firmly in hand and concealed behind his back. Mrs. Hudson was probably out for shopping since her flat door was closed and there were no signs of vacuuming or cleaning or singing. Not even the sound of TV, which she always kept on (during the day and evening) for some weird reason. Oh well, this was no time to analyze and deduce old Hudders! That would have to wait.

 

Wait…..!!

 

Someone was talking.

 

It was Mrs. Hudson, she was just outside his flat, on the landing. Sherlock couldn’t hear what she was saying but he was sure she was in trouble already, or soon about to get into trouble. One wrong move and the bomb would explode, killing them all. He could turn and run but he didn’t want poor Hudders to be blown sky-high, so he continued his upward journey, hoping he was not too late.

 

He spotted her, squatting on the floor next to a…..boy/teen, wearing a pair of jeans, sneaker and hoodie. The boy was facing away from him and…..oh, was he playing with dinky cars? There were a few bags and boxes around him, as if he was a traveler who lived out of those suitcases.

 

“Oh Sherlock!” Mrs. Hudson had spotted him.

 

“It’s okay Mrs. Hudson, I guess the knock on the door was a case of a mistaken……..”

 

That ‘boy’ turned. Sherlock lost his foothold and fell back three steps, before he managed to get back up there on threes and fours. He blinked, rubbed his eyes, blinked again and harked at the ‘man’ in the jeans, sneaker and hoodie. Not a boy, but a boyishly built and handsome young man, a man whose face he would never forget. The person at his doorstep, the one Mrs. Hudson was talking to, was none other than the Irishman who had shot himself in the mouth right under his nose. _James Isaac Moriarty! Alive!_

 

Sherlock must have made a weird sound because Mrs. Hudson came rushing forward and took his hands. “I saw two men enter and curiously followed them, then saw one was left behind while the other one took off like wolves were on his tail. He was spectacularly tall, muscular, tanned, handsome, blue-eyed, blond, wearing cargo trousers in military prints and a white singlet, denim jacket with a furry collar on top.”

 

“Sebastian Moran,” Sherlock murmured, still staring in shock at Jim Moriarty who had coolly gone back to playing with the cars. _What was this new game now?_ Sherlock remembered Moran very well. The ace sniper who never missed. If he stalked you, you better write your will. Moriarty’s second in command, ruthless and cruel, the chief of his staff and often his stand-in when Moriarty was too busy. After Moriarty’s ‘death’, he had blown up a bunch of people, vehicles, structures and made life hell for many people in England. A red alert had been issued against his name and a warrant for his arrest released. But then, just as Sherlock was leaving for his task to take down Moriarty’s web, Sebastian Moran had disappeared. To many it seemed he had dropped off the edge of the earth.

 

Well, now he knew he hadn’t. He was hiding. Probably because he had found out Jim was alive.

 

_But then why bring him here and leave him at Sherlock’s doorstep?_

 

“Sherlock…..are you listening to me?”

 

Sherlock blinked. Yes, Mrs. Hudson had been talking, but like numerous times before, he had not bothered to listen. “What was that?”

 

“He seems different. He couldn’t harm a fly if he tried. Please be kind with him. He seems like a….like a……broken doll.”

 

“That’s not for you to decide, let me take a call on that.”

 

“Okay, do what you want. But be gentle. I’ll get something for him to eat. He was asking for apple pie and ice cream.”

 

“What???!!”

 

Mrs. Hudson patted Jim on the head and walked downstairs, with an air of cool casualness as if her nephew was visiting and not the most infamous and dangerous criminal mastermind. Correction, the former mastermind. Was it so?

 

Sherlock approached Jim with trepidation and stood over the man, following his every movement through keen eyes. Jim looked even younger than before. The intervening years had not made him age at all, in fact he seemed to have reverse-aged and looked no more than twenty-one. He looked more like Richard Brook than Jim Moriarty. However, he wasn’t as scruffy as Richard. He was shaved, bathed, well-dressed and his hairs were meticulously spiked more than casually rumpled.

 

“So you’re back, to play a new game I suppose?” Sherlock asked in his formal baritone. He wasn’t letting his guard down, yet.

 

Deep brown eyes looked at him, devoid of the fieriness and feistiness of the freak he once knew. The gaze was now normal, innocent, with the curiosity of a child and somewhat…. empty?! Sherlock grappled with the facts he saw and the facts he had in his head and for the first time he even wondered if Richard Brook and Jim Moriarty were two different people. Was it Moriarty who had died and Richard Brook who was left or was it Richard who had blown out his brains and Moriarty was still alive and now sitting in front of him. “Game? That means you will play with me? Sebby told me you would,” Jim Moriarty asked, his voice also lacking the freakish, cruel, almost diabolical streak that was so typical of him.

 

“Play? Um…yes….okay Jim, what’s going on?”

 

He was handed a yellow dinky car.

 

“It’s mine?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How long before it explodes?”

 

“What will explode?”

 

Sherlock felt a sudden jolt. What if this man was really a broken doll? What if he was being hard on someone who was so damaged he didn’t remember anything? He was about to apologize and ask something else when Jim took something out of his pocket with much difficulty (Sherlock noticed his eye-hand coordination was not top-notch), then held out a folded piece of paper towards him.

 

“For you Sherly.”

 

Again the dull, flat and childish voice. Sherlock had begun to freak out a bit by then. He took the note and unfolded it, reading it quietly. But he couldn’t stay quiet for too long as the contents of the note began to drive up his blood pressure by several counts!

 

“HOLY SHIT, HOLY HELL, HOLY EVERYTHING THAT THERE IS!!!”


	2. I won't give up on him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jim paints John Watson in a funny outfit

“I love you. In all these years, I have loved you with all my heart, my gut, my everything. It’s been one of those relationships that transcend borders, time, work, responsibilities. I admit I cheated a few times, sometimes with you, sometimes on you, but believe me you’re the big ship I always came back to. The other fascinations, they came and went like small boats. But my love, today is the day we need to call it quits. I have finally reached a position where I can no longer give you my devotion…..please forgive me.”

 

He let go and withdrew his hands.

 

Mycroft sighed and got up from the table, then looked sadly at his longstanding and loyal housekeeper Agnes who was watching him from a far corner of the room. “You know what to do,” he mouthed before slowly walking out of the spacious, open plan kitchen. Agnes nodded and stepped forward to do his bidding but as soon as he had exited the room, the cleaning woman, Ciara, grabbed Agnes’ hand and stopped her. “Wait! Please stay and tell me what’s going on,” she asked in a breathless manner, “Our employer, the mighty Mycroft Holmes, known as the Iceman, I have never seen him so emotional. I overheard him from the other room and for a second I thought he was really breaking up. You need to tell me what’s all this about. Please.”

 

“What’s on the table?”

 

“Cake.”

 

“He broke up with the cake.”

 

“He broke up with the cake???”

 

“Yes. The cheating he referred to was how he cheated on his diet by sneaking some cake into it. The other cheating he spoke about, which was about cheating ‘on the cake’, was when he ate pastries and puffs instead. Today he decided he won’t eat cake again as he has finally got to the weight he always wanted, through a strict regime of diet and exercises. He wants to look perfect for his ‘Knighthood’ ceremony next week.”

 

“This is so weird.”

 

Agnes smiled, “You’ll get used to it. Without a bit of weirdness you can’t be an absolute genius. If you think Mr. Holmes is weird, wait till you see his brother.”

 

“Ehm, you seem to have some powers of premonition,” Ciara remarked as she looked out of the kitchen window, “There he is, his brother Sherlock, just getting past security and walking down the garden path.”

 

“Oh God,” Agnes said, “Mr. Holmes doesn’t like being disturbed after a hard day’s work. He will be so offended.”

 

She ran upstairs to inform her employer, “Let me tell him before his kid brother climbs in through the window and scares the hell out of him!”

 

Agnes rushed to the window and stood there, watching the handsome green-eyed man approach. He was clad in his usual frock-style trench-coat, boots, that stern and aloof expression on his face which screamed ‘Don’t mess with me, actually don’t even come in my line of sight’. She melted despite that, she had always had a huge crush on this man just as she knew one of the security personnel at the gate, a woman named Georgina, had a similar crush on Mycroft. _Different strokes for different folks_ , she mused, as she watched him walk up to the porch and pick the lock instead of trying the security code. A grin spread on her lips. This was so Sherlock Holmes. He would try to breach the security system of the Mi5 and Mi6 chief’s official residence rather than use the conventional methods of being ‘let in’.

 

As half-expected, the siren for the breach sounded almost a minute later.

 

***

 

“Asshole, insensitive bastard, douche-bag,” Sherlock said in an ominous voice, “You take care of the accident you caused. I am done.”

 

“How dare you?” Mycroft, irate and disdainful, stood to his full height and glared at his brother, eyeball to eyeball without seeing eye to eye.

 

Sherlock stepped back immediately from the apparent standoff, a wicked grin breaking through the corners of his lips. “That’s not what _I am saying_ but this _letter does_. It, unfortunately, begins like that and ends like that, I’m afraid,” he explained as he handed his brother the same folded piece of paper that he’d been given by Jim an hour and half earlier. He knew he could start this on a better note but it was so much fun seeing Mycroft ‘lose’ it for a change that it was worth the entire effort. Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he rocked on his heels as Mycroft read out the brief note, _aloud_.

 

_To the Holmes Boys_

_Assholes, insensitive bastards, douche-bags. You take care of the accident you caused. I am so done, for the moment._

_Thanks to you the most beautiful, brilliant and bedazzling mind was destroyed and turned into a near vegetable. He is like this now, a nine year old trapped in a thirty-five year old’s body. You have to deal with his moods, his fears, his insecurities constantly, wait on his needs hand and foot, which I have done for years. I need a break now and you two have to undo some of the wrongs you did. So I am leaving him with you._

_If anything goes wrong with him, if he’s even a slight bit hurt, if you lose him, I will fulfil his wishes from years ago and turn you into briefcases and belts. Or maybe deal with you my way and blow your brains out. Either ways, you won’t live to see another day if he’s ill-treated._

_So long motherfuckers, see you in a few months…..Love/Moran._

 

Mycroft and Sherlock looked at each other for a moment and Mycroft _whispered, ‘He really signed it off as ‘Love/Moran’?! What an imbecile!’_ They broke out into cacophonous laughter before it occurred to them, simultaneously even, that the task staring them in the face was far steeper than they were thinking it to be. They had to deal with Moriarty, brain-damaged or not, and ensure this was not a trap set for them. They sobered up, became grim faced and serious once again, and Mycroft re-read the note to ensure he hadn’t missed anything. “What took you so long to show up?” Mycroft asked, “From the folds on this note and your breath, I can say you have had this for at least a couple of hours. You have read this at least fifty times and recently eaten bacon sandwiches.”

 

“Yes to both,” Sherlock said with an impatient wave of his arms, “I had to eat that because he wasn’t eating. Mrs. Hudson made these for him, along with apple-pie, and he was insistent on only the apple pie. So Hudders told me to eat one sandwich, so he can follow suit and eat one for himself. While I waited, I read this again and again but there’s no further clue in this note, nothing to be deduced except for Sebastian Moran’s personality.”

 

“Oh that we can do easily from his handwriting. He is clearly a headstrong man, very determined in whatever he does, has immense patience and great powers of concentration, if he decides about something he does so after several rounds of deliberations……wait!”

 

“Yes, that’s a clue. He had been planning this for a while!”

 

“Question is why?”

 

“Yeah, why?”

 

“Where is James?”

 

“At home. Oh, another reason I got delayed. He was cranky, thanks to being tired. I had to stay next to him till he fell asleep.”

 

“You left him sleeping at 221B? What times does John come back?”

 

Sherlock froze. Oh boy, he hadn’t thought about that. John didn’t even know he’d meet Moriarty when he returned home. In a flash he was at the door, dragging Mycroft along. “Come on, come on, we need to be there.”

 

“Wait,” Mycroft made a quick trip to the kitchen and came back with the cake he had abandoned and ‘broken up’ with earlier. When Sherlock rolled his eyes, Ciara grinned and Agnes gave him an exasperated look, he simply shrugged and bit into the piece. “What?” He said coldly, “I tend to stress eat.”

 

“Right,” Sherlock said, shaking his head, “Let’s go. I suppose I can drive one of your cars better than that stooge Gary.”

 

“Gary Bower is a trusted Mi5 operative, a little respect please,” Mycroft protested but Sherlock turned a deaf ear to that. He was already on his way to Mycroft’s garage, where a Lexus, an Aston Martin, his official black Mercedes Limo and an expensive custom-made Cadillac Escalade SUV jostled for space. In a few minutes they were on their way to Baker Street, Sherlock driving like a maniac, Mycroft eating cake like a maniac, Anthea and some of his Mi5 operatives following them at a safe distance and wondering what was going on in their boss’s life! Whenever Sherlock was around, there was either trouble, danger or strife and even though Mycroft had not signaled for the security protocols, Anthea had learned through the years to act on instinct.

 

***

 

John gulped.

 

How did his life come down to this?

 

He was sitting on his chair, wearing a shiny cloak made of tin foil, a skirt made of old newspapers, a watermelon shell on his head for a hat and a gun made out of soap. Jim Moriarty was standing a few feet away, painting obsessively on a canvas mounted on a tripod stand, paint splattered all over himself, his hands a medley of various colors, he even had a streak of green paint on his right cheek. He tried to move, he needed to scratch his thigh, but the moment Moriarty looked up from his painting he stilled again. God, very soon a Semtex vest would be put around him and Sherlock wasn’t even around to save him this time!

 

“JAWN!”

 

“SHERLOCK!!!”

 

“JOHN!”

 

“MYCROFT!!!”

 

Jim looked up from the painting, giving Mycroft a curious glance that young boys usually gave to weird contraptions they had never seen before. “You,” he said in a voice that was totally ‘Non-Moriarty’, “I will paint you next.”

 

“Good Heavens,” Mycroft murmured, suitably astounded, “You were right! He is really not the Moriarty we had known and it is him…..it’s him, for sure.”

 

John made helpless noises as Sherlock checked him all over for injuries. As soon as that was done, he stepped back and became his usual poker-faced self again. “Great, no harm done at all. You’re fine.”

 

“NO,” John protested angrily as he got up from the chair, still clad in his silly and ludicrous costume, “I am NOT fine. Clearly you knew he is here and you didn’t bother to tell me a word about it. I came back and found him asleep on your bed and was about to run away, when I slip and fall on this….a half portion of soap-cake. He wakes up, then says he wants to play fancy-dress warrior with me, puts these things on me and….and….starts painting feverishly as if his life depended on it. I have spent the last hour counting seconds and wondering which one would be my last. So no sir…..no way am I fine, or even okay. I am about to lose my bladder controls if you ask me.”

 

“Good boys don’t piss their pants,” Jim said as he continued to paint while Mycroft slowly walked around and stood behind him, studying the painting, “You go to bathroom and pee.”

 

John gave Sherlock an exasperated glance. “I’ll explain,” Sherlock said, “You go change, shower, come back here when you’re feeling better.”

 

For a second it seemed John was about to snap again but then he decided to just do as Sherlock had said and went upstairs to his room. Sherlock turned towards Jim and found that he was leaning against Mycroft while his elder brother talked softly to him, asking him something about the painting he had made. Sherlock frowned, more at himself than anyone else, why did this sight of Jim leaning against Mycroft make something burn low in his stomach. It was a funny feeling.

 

“Never knew,” Mycroft said, “He’s an amazing painter. Just look. Never mind the subject he chose though.”

 

Sherlock joined them and when his eyes fell on the canvas, they widened in shock and bewilderment. Yes, Mycroft was right! The painting was a masterpiece despite it being a very cartoonish impression of John. Every color, every bold stroke, every angle and corner was pure perfection. No one knew Moriarty was such a talented painter, such a skilled artist and such a wizard with the paint brush! “It’s amazing,” he murmured.

 

“Where did you get these things?” Mycroft asked about the colors, brushes, canvas.

 

“Tiger packed them for me,” Jim answered.

 

Sherlock deduced something from his tone. This was not the quintessential rebel with impulse control issues but a man-child who was used to, _even dependent_ , on orders and directions. He sounded suppressed, servile, shy. For a second an almost indecent scene flashed before his eyes. Jim on his knees before him as he ordered him to fellate him till he came in that hot mouth and on that agile tongue.

 

“Fuck,” he swore.

 

He knew the moment the cuss word left him that he had given a bit of the cat out of the bag, probably the whiskers and ears. Mycroft looked at him sharply and Sherlock’s face became a mask again. But by then sweat beads had appeared at the back of his neck and his temples, he was feeling hot in reasonably cold weather and suddenly his pants were tight. What was wrong with him and how long would it take for his perceptive elder brother to read through that? He purposefully averted his gaze and walked away a bit. “He has messed up his hands, clothes, face,” Mycroft said, “I suppose we need to help him clean up. James, are you done with the painting? Let’s put it away to dry, in a safe place, and get some fresh clothes out for you. Did you spill the painting over yourself?”

 

“Couldn’t find the palette.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah. Don’t tell Tiger.”

 

“So you mixed it on your hands and clothes?”

 

“Uhnn-hnnn!”

 

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged glances. “Excuse us for a second, will you?” Mycroft said and grabbed Sherlock’s elbow, dragging him to the kitchen, “Sherlock I will have to commit him or send him to some place where…..”

“Where they’ll treat him like a kid and turn him even more into one?” Sherlock said angrily, “I am not letting that happen. Do you realize what this man is capable of, if he gets back even fifty percent of what he used to be? Murder, macabre activities and mayhem perhaps but also a solution to world hunger, global warming, cure to diseases and conditions we are still miles away from. He is brilliant. He still is. We need to dig it out.”

 

“Fine, we won’t commit him but….he needs therapy, counseling, meds, he needs constant supervision and probably a lot of TLC. Are you even capable of that? Am I? I don’t think so. We are not built for that Sherlock and maybe we will end up damaging him even more. Don’t look at me like that, just tell me if you have ever looked after anyone else in your life? Why do you think even his faithful Sebastian gave up?”

 

Sherlock looked at Jim. The man looked small, shrunk, shaky. Suddenly a surge of protectiveness ran through him and he said, “But I won’t.”


	3. A Gourmet Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John shows he has a golden heart. Sherlock is horny. Mycroft finds that he does care.

Sherlock grabbed the erection throbbing between his legs and started to jerk off, eyes closed and his lean frame pressed against the bathroom door. He had bolted it and run the tap, so he wouldn’t be heard, hopefully not too much. He just couldn’t stop the moans from tumbling out right now.

 

His eyes fell on the bathtub, now drained but still retaining some remnants of the colors that had been washed off Jim. A mere look at that innocent tub gave him hot flashes as he remembered the bath he had given Jim about three hours ago.

 

To his immense shock but no surprise, this ‘new’ Jim had managed to strip out of his clothes slowly and with the clumsiness of a child, but he hadn’t stopped with just the outer layers. He had removed even the boxers he was wearing and by the time Sherlock had finished filling the tub and arranging the towels, he had a totally naked Jim standing right next to him. _Oh fuck, I should have given him instructions_ , the detective rued. Comically enough, Sherlock had lost his balance and fallen into the water himself, fully clothed. “Tiger takes a bath with me sometimes,” Jim had said, getting into the tub right next to a stunned Sherlock, “He says it’s easier to clean me up that way. But you need to take those off, good boys don’t bathe with their clothes on.”

 

The image of the handsome sniper bathing naked with the sexy, slender Jim – Once again Sherlock had felt that ‘fire’ inside his belly, not a pleasant one, something like a flaming gut that seemed to be scorching his insides.

 

He had been waiting for hours to do this, to get some relief, and couldn’t manage that private time until Jim was in bed and asleep. Now he couldn’t wait to cum.

 

“Oh yeah,” he doubled over as a sweet ache gripped his loins, “Fuck!”

 

He tightened his fist around his member and a howl left him as pleasure swam up his spine in waves, temporarily just paralyzing his brain. He couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move, couldn’t stop, all he could do was feel. Jerk off and feel that orgasm coming closer and closer.

 

When it finally hit him, he saw stars and spots behind closed eyes and slid down to the floor, spilling into his hand. His heart beat madly in his chest and his mushy brain slowly began to recover from its temporary hiatus. Sherlock tried to breathe normally and stop those soft moans from coming out, but found it impossible to do so. They just kept tumbling out as aftershocks settled over him. Feebly he reached out for the tissues kept next to the sink and wiped himself and his hands, then some spots of the floor.

 

“Sex is dangerous,” he murmured as he fixed his clothes and stood up on wobbly legs, “Attraction is so wrong. Love is a disadvantage. Caring is never an advantage. I am married to my career. I don’t need sex or arousal. I am an asexual being who just….just wants to…..”

 

A voice in his head laughed and replied, ‘Fuck Moriarty?’

 

“Shut up,” Sherlock snapped and got out of the bathroom as quickly as possible.

 

He went to the bedroom to check on Jim and found him fast asleep under the covers, hugging a pillow and his ‘night-toy’, a cute rag doll which was a spitting image of Sherlock, complete with deerstalker cap, coat, even a similar blue scarf that he wore. The detective wondered if Sebastian Moran had a bone-dry sense of humor there. He had given Jim a ‘Sherlock’ toy to hug!!! It even had his name printed on the front, though it didn’t say ‘Sherlock’ but ‘Sherlylocks’ which was the pet name Jim Moriarty often used on him. He turned out the bedside light and left the door ajar, just a bit, so the room didn’t plunge into total darkness. He had no idea if Jim had PTSD or any other phobias in this condition and if darkness would only end up making those worse.

 

When he went into the living room to clear his head (and wonder if he could sleep on the same bed as Jim, on his side maybe), he found John sitting there quietly and staring at his laptop screen. “Hey,” he said, flopping down on his chair, “You can tell me what you want of me right now. I am aware this time that I have taken a rather crazy decision.”

 

“On the contrary,” John said with a deep sigh, “I am rather proud of you for doing this Sherlock. You did something humane, something kind for a change.”

 

Sherlock pouted, “You make me look like some monster. Not that I care.”

 

“But I do,” John said calmly, “You’re my friend. You’re in fact the only family I have. It matters to me what others think of you. Mrs. Hudson was gushing about you and how you took a damaged, broken man in without even thinking about the consequences. While I am angry you never told me and I ended up posing for him in that…..ridiculous ensemble which he made within five minutes…..”

 

“John, wait.”

 

“What?”

 

“He made all that in five minutes???”

 

“Yes, so?”

 

Sherlock gave him a ‘duh’ look. John smacked his palms together and exclaimed, “Of course! Creating all that, out of normal everyday things, that speaks of a creativity only very few can manage. This means…..this mean that…..The genius in him is dormant, it’s not dead. He can be cured. With a lot of patience and tact and gentle care he can be healed, I am sure he can become better.”

 

Sherlock shrugged, “I dunno why I felt like helping him. Maybe because there was some unfinished business between us and I wanted to tie up loose ends. He brought out the best in me and I wanted to honor him for that…..I don’t know John, the more I think about this the more it confuses the hell out of me. I just want to help him, I want to see him like his former self again….minus the evil side of course.”

 

John simply nodded and said nothing. A bit unnerved (John always knew the answers to emotional conflicts, if he had no answers it worried Sherlock), the detective decided to ask John another question instead. “He wasn’t very nice to you either. Why are you so sympathetic?”

 

John chuckled mirthlessly and sat back down again. “What can I say Sherlock?” He cracked his knuckles and stared at the long unused fireplace, “I am a doctor and I think I take my job of ‘saving lives’ and ‘helping people’ rather seriously. He is damaged, unwell, perhaps rather terribly broken, and that makes him a patient, right? A doctor should sympathize with a patient. Have you ever seen a doctor look at a seriously injured man or woman and say _‘No, I don’t like them, therefore I don’t care if they live or die, heal or suffer’_. I might regret my words and decision later, I don’t know, but at this point all I want to do is help him. He was suicidal even back then and all we saw was the criminal in him, not the sick man behind that maniac-mask.”

 

He cleared his throat and added, “We need an electric fireplace. The heaters don’t do much in this cold. Who can say it’s spring time already? It’s biting cold outside today.”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, “So it is.”

 

“So I was saying….if you want to do this, _I am with you_.”

 

“Thanks Jawn. I don’t know if I can do this alone. I need help.”

 

“Hudders is going to help. I would. Try and enlist Mycroft’s help too. We would need it, Moriarty would need it.”

 

“No. Moriarty wouldn’t. Jim would.”

 

“Yes,” John said as he stood up, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, “It’s midnight almost. I had an early start to the day. I’ll go to bed now.”

 

“Good night Jawn.”

 

“Night Sherlock.”

 

***

 

Mycroft woke up with a jump, his heart loudly thudding into his ears. Gosh, what a terrible, terrible dream that was! No, it was a nightmare, a dreadful and bloodcurdling nightmare. He had seen himself in bed, just woken, with Jim Moriarty standing at the foot of the bed with a dagger in his hands. The blade was bloodied and some of that blood was dripping on the floor and rug, creating strange patterns. “What….what happened?” He had asked, already fearful of the answer.

 

That manic laughter, shrill and loud and filled with dreadful gasps and squeals, had echoed across the room. Then Jim had advanced towards him, dagger raised, and said, “This time even your unlimited power couldn’t save your darling little brother.”

 

“Dear God, I need to throw this out of my mind,” Mycroft whispered, throwing off the covers. He quickly made a trip to the washroom and came out with a tall glass of water in his hands. As he sipped the cool liquid, his parched throat felt better and he decided to turn in again. But he was scared of that nightmare and worried about it recurring once he slept. So, despite the fact that he was still tired, he sat up and reached for his phone. It was only 6 am, the world was only half-awake, the streets outside still empty and noiseless. Soon London would wake up properly and start its hectic daily routine, with commuters jostling and running and traffic crawling about at a snail’s pace.

 

He had slept rather badly the night before, constantly thinking about Jim and how he had shown up at Sherlock’s doorstep out of the blue. What if this was a carefully orchestrated trap? What should he do? Behave like a good human and take care of the broken man or be safe and logical and keep him in protective custody, assign therapists and round the clock watchdogs around him so he wouldn’t be able to lapse into his criminal ways again.

 

He called Sherlock’s mobile. He would tell his brother about his nightmare for sure, if he did so that brat would poke fun at him for years to come. The phone rang a few times before a sleepy voice answered him.

 

“H’lo, Sherlock Holmes’ residence.”

 

“James?!”

 

“Mmmmhhh, yes I am James.”

 

“Where is Sherlock?”

 

“Sleeping. On the couch. Shall I wake him?”

 

“Um….no, no. No, let him sleep. No need to wake him up at this hour. I’ll text him…..one moment…… Why are _you awake_ so early?”

 

“I had to go to the bathroom.”

 

Clipped short sentences, slow speech, but he remembers me and can form proper answers to questions, if not elaborate ones. “Why aren’t you in bed?” He asked again, “I have a feeling you’re roaming about in the house, bare feet, right?”

 

It was a wild guess but Jim was clearly impressed. His voice sounded excited at first, “How did you know?” Then he sounded a little subdued again, “Sherlock is sleeping and I am hungry. Can’t go back to sleep.”

 

Mycroft had always stayed away from attachment, feelings, caring for anyone else other than his own needs, his work and his lifestyle and home. He did care about Sherlock, about his parents, even to some extent about Eurus, but it was not the average, normal form of filial love that he displayed. He had gladly gifted Eurus a Stradivarius, he had dragged Sherlock away from drug dens multiple times, but he had never bothered to cook a meal for a starving Sherlock nor did he help them overcome a difficult period of their lives. He had never been available for such things, making excuses in his head that he was not ‘built for that’. But now, surprisingly, he found that he not only cared about Jim and Sherlock’s situation at 221B, he looked forward to helping them out.

 

He reached the flat at 8-30 am, on his way to work, with a truckload of food in his arms. The moment he stepped in he found Sherlock still asleep on the couch with Jim curled up in his arms. They had kicked down most of the covers, one of the pillows was on the rug beneath, Jim’s feet were sticking out of the couch as was one of Sherlock’s long arms. But somehow those two fully grown men, one quite tall, managed to fit into the not-so-big couch quite easily.

 

He cleared his throat to wake them up

 

“Mycroft.”

 

“Open your eyes and you may like what you see.”

 

“Mycroft.”

 

“Sherlock, I got food. James was hungry…..”

 

“Mike?”

 

“Oh,” Mycroft realized that none of the geniuses had woken, it was a voice coming from a spot right behind him. Hurriedly he stepped aside and let John in. The doctor seemed mildly amused and pointed at the sack of food the elder Holmes was carrying, “Am I dreaming or what? To what good fortune do we owe this, a fragrant gourmet breakfast from the Michelin star kitchen of Mycroft Holmes?”

 

“Just thought….I’d play my part,” Mycroft said awkwardly, handing the bag to John, “I suppose you can take over from here?”

 

“Have you eaten yet?” John asked.

 

“Um….no, I was getting late so……” Mycroft replied, casting a glance at Sherlock who was still dead to the world, and Jim, who had begun to shift about and rub at his eyes. They had to be woken up soon, somehow the sight of his brother and his brother’s former nemesis in such close proximity was giving him an odd, foreboding feeling. “Good then,” John said, taking the packed boxes out and setting them on the kitchen table, “For a change we shall have almost all the chairs at the kitchen table occupied. Usually it’s just me, sometimes Hudders joins in, but that’s it. Sherlock never sits in one place while he eats, that is…..when he eats. Someday it’s the chair, someday the couch, sometimes even the bathroom, sitting on the closed lid of the pot, _he is hilarious_.”

 

“You’re telling this to a man who drinks flavored milk while taking a shit in the morning.”

 

The heavy drawling baritone was unmistakable, even though it sounded thicker and mumbling, thanks to his just woken state. Sherlock was back to the land of the living and staring wickedly at the vexed face of his elder brother. The detective had clearly heard them whilst they were talking and so had Jim Moriarty. “Why does he drink flavored milk in the bathroom?” Jim asked, frowning, “You are not supposed to be eating or drinking in the bathroom. That is such awfully bad manners.”

 

“Speaking of manners,” Mycroft said, “Sherlock dances naked while he shaves.”

 

“Mycroft paints his toenails sometimes,” Sherlock shot back.

 

“He lost his virginity to a woman of fifty, that too because he wanted a mountain bike which mummy wouldn’t buy for him since he had lost the previous one.”

 

“ _Brother mine_ , have you forgotten that time when your physics professor, a balding potbellied idiot, proposed marriage to you because you apparently reminded him of his younger self.”

 

“You can’t cook to save your life.”

 

“You can’t play the violin or…..”

 

“You looked like a hedgehog as a kid.”

 

“Oh! What did you look like? I daresay like an ant-eater, with a……”

 

“OH FOR GOD’S SAKE,” John yelled loud enough for everyone to startle, jump and fall silent, “Stop this bickering, especially in front of James, and let’s have the bloody breakfast.”


	4. That strange feeling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock feels like a pedophile, but can't help himself

A week passed and the day arrived when Mycroft was supposed to receive his knighthood. Naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes came over a day before to London, so they could also attend the ceremony along with their sons. Although taken aback at the sight of James Moriarty there, the elderly couple felt so bad after hearing his story and seeing him in that condition, they not only forgave him but also practically adopted him.

 

“What do you like to eat James?” Eugenia Holmes asked as she started preparations for dinner, helped by Ciara and Agnes.

 

“Apples,” Jim replied in a distracted and disinterested tone, painting something on a new piece of canvas while chewing on his bottom lip. Eugenia looked first at Agnes and then at Mycroft, both of whom shrugged slightly and expressed their helplessness. Clearing her throat she approached Jim who suddenly made a distressed sound and made frantic motions for her to stay away, to not come any closer. “Eug,” Reginald Holmes looked up from the newspaper he was reading, “Don’t disturb the poor boy. He isn’t in anyone’s way, let him do his thing and you do yours. Prepare whatever you like and I am sure he will definitely eat something or the other from the menu.”

 

“Oh okay.”

 

Sherlock, who was in a corner of the room with John, piped up, “I like spaghetti.”

 

John frowned, “No, you like macaroni. You told me you do….wait, you didn’t even mean what you said, didn’t you?”

 

“Happens at times. Mummy, I like spaghetti.”

 

“I think I’ll go with fusilli. Your dad, John and Mike both like that and I know you and I do eat that too.”

 

Mycroft made an odd chuckling sound. Sherlock turned purple with rage. “If you make fusilli, dear mummy, then _I am not eating any dinner_.”

 

“Quick John,” Reginald said, lowering his voice so most of the others wouldn’t hear it, “Hand me a beer before it starts.” When a puzzled John handed him the can he added, “Hand me my phone as well, _it’s right next to your on that side table_ , before it starts.” John did as he was told but his confusion levels were sky-high by then. “Hurry John,” Reginald said again, “Let’s get out of this room and go to another before _it really starts_.”

 

“What on God’s earth is going to start? What is it?” John asked, rather frustrated by the ambiguous chatter.

 

“You don’t really need to eat, brother mine,” Mycroft said in a catty tone, “You barely eat anyways. If someone saw you without all these bulky, oversized clothes on, they’d probably think you’re from a famine ravaged land.”

 

Sherlock was not one to take things graciously. He shot back with sarcasm of his own, “And when they see you, they’d identify the source and main reason behind that famine. You’d eat up half the produce of the land if given a chance.”

 

“See, _it started_ ,” Reginald Holmes said and quickly left the room. “Wait, I’m with you,” an embarrassed John followed suit, not willing to stay back and witness a snark-filled, sarcasm-laden, childish fight between two fully grown men. Taking the cue from their exit, a grinning Eugenia turned away from her sons and concentrated on cooking dinner. She ushered Agnes and Ciara away from the scene as well and gave the two ladies their orders. They started chopping and dicing vegetables and pounding the steaks with a meat mallet, the knives making odd sounds on the cutting boards. But not even the slice of the sharpest knives compared to the sharp as dagger glares being thrown by the Holmes siblings at each other.

 

“She’s cooking those oysters, which you like,” Mycroft lashed out but in his cool, collected manner, “You surely don’t expect every dish to be made according to your weird tastes.”

 

“My tastes are not weird,” Sherlock snarled, “I don’t live off cakes, sweet flaky pastries and doughnuts like you do.”

 

“Your impertinence is so annoying that I am tempted to forgive myself for having locked you out on the roof that night when I had my friends over for a house party,” Mycroft started to laugh as the memories of that long-past date came back to him.”

 

“Even I forgive myself for taking my revenge the very next week,” Sherlock was grinning in a very ghastly, spiteful manner, “You made me run your errands and do your chores for a little spending money! Remember you asked me to prepare a face mask for you and shine your shoes before you went on that date with Maureen Robinson? Well, I put your peppermint foot cream in your face mask and put your expensive apricot based face cream right on to your shoes, hahahahaha!”

 

Mycroft stood up, his face twisted in a grotesque rictus of disgruntlement, “I am going to be given my knighthood tomorrow. I demand some respect.”

 

“The Queen should retire,” Sherlock kept sitting, “She’s lost it. Thinking of an idiot in a tin foil costume as a knight……”

 

A crash sounded and Sherlock was on the floor. Mycroft had kicked the chair and caused him and the chair to topple over. Eugenia gasped, Agnes dropped a knife on the floor and John and Reginald came running to see what had gone wrong. But over every sound they heard the unmistakable screech of a scared child, only it came in the voice of a man.

 

“Jim!!!”

 

“James!!”

 

Jim was shrinking away in a corner, curling into his own shadow, arms wrapped around himself as he started to make groany, whiny, distressed sounds. He cradled his head in his own hands and refused to look at anyone or talk, crouching next to a cabinet as if trying to hide his small frame from the world. Sherlock stared in shock, blaming himself for the situation he had created that had so stressed Jim out, but he lacked the social skills to express his apologies or his compassion properly. To his own disgust, instead of gathering Jim in his arms and assuring him all was well, he simply stood there watching him have a fit. Next to him even Mycroft stood still as a statue, a look of utter helplessness on his face. He found seven different avatars of himself dueling inside his head, wondering which was the best way to console Jim, but not a single one stepped forward with a solution, leaving him as useless as Sherlock.

 

“James,” Reginald approached him, “James it’s okay. Look at me.”

 

“Yes James,” Eugenia crouched next to him, “They are brothers, they fight sometimes.” She glared at her sons though, silently reproaching them.

 

“Step aside please,” John came forward with a syringe in his hands, “I need to give him this.”

 

“What….what are you giving him?” Sherlock queried.

 

“Dr. Louise Mortimer is treating him, as you know,” John declared as he gave Jim the shot, “She has given me a list of things to do in case of emergencies. If this doesn’t work we will have to admit him.”

 

To their relief, Jim began to calm down over the next few minutes. It happened in slow sequential steps. First the hyperventilating stopped, then the shivering, finally Jim opened his eyes and looked at them and stood up on shaky legs. He seemed far more in control over his body and mind but he was also exhausted and droopy after that ‘fit’. Seeing that, Reginald guided him to the living room, saying Jim needed to lie down for a bit.

 

“Why?” Eugenia demanded to know from her sons, “What was the big necessity to fight like that? You guys sounded worse than kids.”

 

“He was here,” Sherlock let it slip out, “I couldn’t just stand there and get hammered by Mike’s insults, could I? Not in front of him!”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft admitted too, as the eyes of his formidable mother turned towards him, “I didn’t want him to think anyone could say just about anything to me and get away with it.”

 

“Boys,” Eugenia Holmes said, “Have you, I mean both of you, started to develop some sort of feelings towards him? Towards James, I mean!”

 

While Mycroft simply waved his hand and made a facial expression that suggested ‘oh that’s bullshit’, Sherlock relied on his usual sarcasm to save his own ass. But their protests didn’t really find a believer in Eugenia, nor in John who was watching it all from a little distance.

 

***

 

“I got some gifts for you,” Jim said in a small voice as the meal ended and the plates were cleared by the two retainers, “Just to say thank you.” He got up and went to the other room to fetch them while John and the Holmes family sat there and waited. The meal had been most delicious and everyone had a dish they loved, including Jim who enjoyed the green apple and grape drink Eugenia had prepared for him. The conversation around the table had been stilted and brief but thankfully no longer bordering on insults, roguish jokes, razor sharp sarcasm and bickering. In a way, John felt relieved that they were done with it and it would be time to go home very soon.

 

Jim came back with a large canvas in his arms and Agnes and Ciara followed with two more. “These,” Jim handed them awkwardly to Reginald, “For you……”

 

As the canvases were set before them, the gathered party couldn’t help but gasp with awe at how spectacular they were. One was a portrait of Sherlock standing, John right next to him, both staring back at the audience. It was right outside their 221B door and so life like that for a second John wondered if he could shake hands with himself. The other one was Mycroft standing before his car, legs crossed, supported by his trusted and faithful umbrella. From his three-piece suit, the tie, his shiny shoes, no details had been left out in the painting. The final one was one of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. It was a sweet picture of the two sitting next to each other at the dinner table, sipping tea. “Incredible,” Reginald murmured, “You painted these from pictures or….?”

 

“No,” Jim said, “You like?”

 

“They’re beautiful. I am going to hang them in my living room, right above the mantelpiece.”

 

“These are amazing Jim.”

 

“Mr. James Moriarty, as a surgeon I might say I am envious of your skills. You have a great eye for detail.”

 

“Thanks Jimmy.”

 

All heads turned to Sherlock, who had spoken the last sentence. Mycroft frowned and muttered, “Jimmy, is it now?”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, “Problem?”

 

“No,” Mycroft got up and started inspecting his portrait, extending his hand towards Jim for a shake, “Not for me at least.”

 

***

 

As luck would have it, a massive thunderstorm broke out that night and the rain came down in buckets. It made driving near impossible and John suggested they stay overnight at Mycroft’s place, to which Sherlock scoffed and refused with different pretexts, ranging from ‘I have a feeling a client may visit me tonight’ to ‘I think Jim needs to sleep on a familiar bed’. But when they heard loud noise outside and realized the rain had brought along a bigger menace, namely a hailstorm, even Sherlock was forced to back off. Mycroft’s mansion had ten bedrooms so everyone was allocated their quarters, with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes getting a room, John getting another and Sherlock and Jim opting to share one.

 

“He can sleep in a separate room,” Mycroft said with a sneer, “He is not an infant.”

 

Sherlock simply grabbed Jim’s hand and dragged him to the room, refusing to answer his brother. But that night something changed between them. As the two men lay side by side, the unfamiliarity of the room and bed struck them both in some way and neither was able to fall asleep instantly. Sherlock tossed and turned, knocking an elbow against Jim, then a knee, basically anything to touch him and feel his presence next to himself. At some point he got his finger in Jim’s chest and the smaller man snapped.

 

“Why are you hitting me?”

 

“I am not. It’s just…..”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Um….can you come closer? I’ll hold you.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Good boys listen to what they’re told to do. They do as they are told. Whatever, just come closer and let me hold you, please Jimmy.”

 

A loud thunderclap sounded and instantly Sherlock had an armful of Jim who clung to him with all four limbs. So he’s not too fond of thunderstorms. No problem, everything happens for a reason, every person and phobia exists for a reason. “Thanks a lot,” he grinned in the darkness.

 

“Sherlylocks?”

 

“Hmmmm?”

 

“Something is happening to me…..you know?”

 

Sherlock knew exactly what was going on with the Irishman who was now half lying on top of him. Truth be told, even he was hard as a rock and his heartbeat had sped up considerably. Being so close to his former nemesis and not being able to touch him, kiss him, have his way with him, _that was pure torture_. But Sherlock had constantly coached himself to hold back. _You’re asexual, being alone protects you and those close to you, getting intimate means you’ll develop feelings, he might get better and try to kill you again, he is Moriarty after all, stay away, just stay away, it’s your responsibility, he’s like a child now, to want him is to encourage a sense of pedophilia within yourself._

The Jim moaned and he lost his self-control. _Even he wants this. His body is that of a man, even if his soul has reverted to its childhood state. He can handle it. If he’s not comfortable you can always stop things then and there._ “Jimmy?” He called out softly.

 

He got another soft moan in response. He cleared his throat softly and asked, “May I kiss you?”

 

“Y-Yes, yeah!”

 

“You do know what this means, right?”

 

“Yeah. I might be crazy but I am _not stupid_.”

 

“Never said you are.”

 

Sherlock felt a tremendous sense of relief that Jim wanted this too, even after knowing what physical intimacy meant! Consenting adults! Yes, this was okay, this was NOT wrong! Needing to dominate and possess the other man, needing to fulfil a longstanding fantasy he had harbored without ever voicing it out loud, he rolled them over and kissed Jim hard. At first Jim tensed up but soon his eyes fluttered shut and he began to kiss Sherlock back, his arms coming up around the detective’s broad back.

 

The kiss soon became heated and their bodies began to reach the brink. Fires had long been banked, desires had risen from the world of the sub-conscious mind and there was nothing and no one to stop them or stem the tide of their passion. Sherlock began to dry hump his bedmate and Jim suddenly parted his legs wide so they were groin to groin, erections rubbing through two thin layers of cotton.

 

Soon they both began to moan into the kiss and Sherlock freed their erections before taking them in a firm grip. Only a few firm strokes and his palm and fingers were a sticky mess of Jim’s ejaculate. Jim cried out his name at that moment, making Sherlock’s own orgasm even sweeter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It might be a bit disturbing to read about a fully grown man willingly seducing another man who's got the sensibilities of a child, but Jim is not 100% a child here. He has flashes of grown-up moments and a part of him is still an adult, waiting for the surface of his distorted persona to get scratched. As you read further, you'll be a bit more comfortable with this, I hope.

**Author's Note:**

> The Broken Doll title is inspired from a line I read in GalaRey's incredible story 'Catching the Ghost' - Jim lay like a broken doll.....But it's not just Jim who might be the 'broken' character in this series.


End file.
